“The child of the brotherhood and the Pythia. Blood of their blood.” Seven Masters. A child. And the child’s mother. The woman at the fountain had strawberry blond hair. It would be red in some lights—like my mother’s. Nine members. Seven Masters. A woman. A child. “The Pythia was the name given to the Oracle at Delphi,” Sloane said. “A priestess at the Temple of Apollo. A prophetess.” I thought of the family—the picture-perfect family I’d looked at, knowing to my core that it was something I’d never have. Mother. Father. Child.
